


Hopelessness Is A Dangerous Addiction

by peppermint_latte



Category: Video Blogging RPF, Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen, Graphic Description of Injuries, One Shot, Scars, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Thoughts of revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 21:03:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17087699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppermint_latte/pseuds/peppermint_latte
Summary: Actor Mark spent a lot of time alone in the manor, what were those years like?





	Hopelessness Is A Dangerous Addiction

Mark stares at the whiskey in front of him, his eyes aren’t focusing but he knows it’s there, he can feel the crystal glass in his hands.

He brings the drink to his lips, he distractedly notices how shaky his grip is. He doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care about anything anymore, his wife cheated on him. The woman of his dreams and she left him for his best friend!

He drinks the last of the whiskey from the glass and goes to put it down, planning to pour himself another.

What else is there to do now that Celine has run off with William? William, what a loyal friend. How could he betray-

Mark feels the glass slip from his hand and hears it shatter on the floor. He groans and reluctantly gets off the bar stool to pick up the mess. His butler quit only a week ago and he hasn’t yet found a replacement.

Mark kneels down and starts collecting the sharp glass as best he can with blurry vision. He reaches for a relatively small piece and cuts his hand.

He snatches his hand back as the pain registers and stares at the blood welling on his palm. It takes his sluggish mind a minute to catch up and he stands with blood dripping onto the floor in search of a bandage.

He finds a towel behind the bar and wraps his palm to stop the bleeding. If he was a little less drunk he’d clean up the mess knowing how it will damage the hard wood flooring.

But drunk as he is, Mark simply grabs the bottle of whiskey and walks to his bedroom.

Mark, amazingly, doesn’t drown in his own vomit that night, though he was certainly drunk enough. But he does wake up with a splitting headache and groans as he gingerly gets out of bed.

He splashes some water on his face and looks at his reflection in the mirror, he needs a shower. And hot water running down his back sounds delightful right about now, and then he’s going to go find the chef.

As he takes off yesterday’s clothes, which consist of his silk bathrobe, he is reminded of the towel he used to bandage his cut. As he looks at the scab on his hand a vague memory of a broken glass comes swimming into view in his mind’s eye. Great, he’ll have to clean that up once he’s finished in the shower.

The shower clears his head and he dresses in his second favourite bathrobe, feeling refreshed, albeit still with a headache.

He finds the broken crystal still strewn across the floor by the bar and gently picks it up, remembering what happened last time he wasn’t careful enough. He comes across the piece he cut his hand on before, it’s quite long with a deadly sharp edge, and it has a thin coating of dried blood on it.

When he throws away the glass he keeps that piece, Mark tells himself it’s just because of his developing sense of morbid humor. And doesn’t think about the way the sting of the open cut felt.

That night he gets the glass out of his pocket and stares at it. It’s wrong, and yet… he’s curious. What does he have to lose? He’s already lost everything, he’s a joke. There’s no one left to judge him now. He carefully presses the glass against his forearm and pulls.

Mark gasps quietly as the glass slices through his skin and he drops it on the bed next to him. He looks at his arm and watches mesmerised as the blood slowly travels down, following gravity.

The same satisfying sting happens when he wraps the cut in gauze. Mark’s eyes find the glass innocently laying next to him, and knows he’s found a new way to pass the days.

He starts of doing it only once a night, knowing he has only so much space on his skin to work with. But his hunger for the numbness that comes after he cuts soon pushes him to go further. Twice a night, three times, ten times.

Mark knows he’s spiralling further and further down, but he stopped caring long ago. It’s weeks later when he gets a call to the house that he finally takes it a step to far.

The call is from his agent, the man tells him that he has a promising casting deal that he’s sure Mark would be interested in. Mark doesn’t know whether he’s been living under a rock, or just doesn’t care about his client’s problems but he tells him bluntly to never call again, Mark is done with acting.

Whatever the role was, it doesn’t matter. Since he has been consumed by his latest addiction he can no longer act. He can’t go out in short sleeves, and certainly can’t act in them, and if anyone found out why he’d never be hired again.

This depressing realisation leads Mark to a dark solution. Sitting at the bar he studies the pieces of glass in the dim light.

It would be so simple. Quick. And all his problems would disappear. No more temporary release, he’d finally be free, proper free, of the pain.

He sits there contemplating for what feels like hours. He drinks, until his vision is swimming, just like it was the night he broke the glass. The alcohol makes him feel comfortably numb, but he knows it won’t last. He’ll wake up with a headache and the same pain in his chest.

You know what? Fuck it. I’m tired of doing this day in day out, let’s end it. The only way left to do it. Mark thinks.

He grips the glass with white knuckles, and lifts it to his neck. He feels the press of cold glass against his throat, Mark breathes through his nose once. He closes his eyes and pulls hard.

Pain explodes through his senses and he falls to the ground, he wants to scream but he can’t. All that he can hear is gurgling as he tries desperately to breathe.

Everything darkens around the edges, and the pain slowly fades away as Mark loses consciousness.

Mark wakes up. He stares at the ceiling and blinks, trying to remember why he’s on the floor. After a moment he does and his eyes open wide, darting around the room.

He’s… alive?

Mark slowly lifts himself into a sitting position and fully takes in his surroundings. He’s in his house, on the floor next to the bar…. and he’s alive. He brings his hand up to his neck, maybe it was a dream? But… no. He feels a thick line running across his throat.

That really happened. Mark really died. Or didn’t die. It doesn’t make any sense.

He gets up to find a mirror, intent on inspecting his newest scar, to confirm it’s authenticity. As he stands he notices the pool of mostly dried blood around him. He leaves it to look for a mirror, he’ll clean it up once he’s sure. Though it’s evidence in itself…

Mark finds a mirror and stares at his reflection. The angry red line on his neck stands out against the rest of his pale complexion. Probably from the blood loss…

He feels along the slightly angled line with his hand again, trying to believe what his reflection is telling him. He can’t really have died, can he? It’s some kind of elaborate prank, surely.

But Mark knows show business, he knows all the tricks used to fake these things. And it’s none of those.

So he can’t die apparently. Or maybe it was just a fluke. He might try again later, he still feels like absolute shit after all.

Once the blood is completely cleaned up and Mark’s sure he’s the only one who will ever know it was there he goes to change his ruined clothes. As he puts his favourite robe on he touches the scar on his neck, he can’t go down to the kitchen looking like that. He digs out his old cravat, he’s never particularly liked this thing, it’s not his style, but it will hide the scar.

Less than a month later Mark tries again, this time with a knife he stole from the kitchen. He doesn’t worry about the chef noticing, as he’ll be dead by that time.

Except he isn’t.

Mark finds out after his second failed attempt, that it’s going to be a lot harder than that, but Mark Fischbach is nothing if not stubborn.

He stabs himself 6 times before he dies the next time, and when that doesn’t work, he only tries harder.

He has no idea just what he’s damning himself and his friends too.


End file.
